


made to order

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is a Dork, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Shiro (Voltron), Smitten Shiro (Voltron), but also hot, lol I'm glad thats a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Shiro will freely admit that he’s not the most epicurean of adults. His diet consists almost solely of take-out, tv dinners, breakfast cereal, and post-workout protein shakes. He’s open to judgement. That’s fair.What’s not fair is the fact that no matter where Shiro finds himself getting his next meal, he’s constantly running into the same man. An attractive stranger whom the universe seems hell bent on bringing into his life. And who is Shiro to argue with the inevitable?*A meet cute AU, featuring a lovestruck (through fatalistic) Shiro and an oblivious Keith.





	made to order

 

***

 

Shiro shifts and the wooden chair underneath him creaks loudly enough to be heard above the frantic sitar thrumming through strategically placed bluetooth speakers. That’s great. Really. Hopefully the chair will break and he’ll be left flat on his ass right here in Godavari: South Indian Cuisine. 

 

Breaking one of the chairs in the waiting area of his favorite Indian restaurant would just be the perfect end to this  _ fantastic  _ day. Maybe if he’s extremely lucky the floor will open underneath him and he'll descend right into the deepest depths of planet Earth. Or maybe he’ll simply phase out of existence entirely. There are worse ways to go, Shiro decides, than spontaneous dissolution into air thick with the smell of coriander and turmeric and cumin. 

 

On the other hand, he’d miss the garlic naan for which he’s waiting, so maybe it would be better to let the existential dread take him  _ after _ he’s had his dinner. 

 

A pretty girl in a brightly colored dress gives him a concerned look on her way back to the dining area. Shiro flashes her a smile on auto-pilot before he can even stop to consider why it’s important that a random stranger doesn’t know he’s exhausted beyond all telling. 

 

It’s late. Smiling at the waitstaff is the least he can do. The restaurant will be closing in another ten minutes, so in a way, Shiro supposes he owes it to them to be pleasant---he’s their last customer of the day. 

 

He’s wrong about that. 

 

The wooden door swings open and Shiro discovers that being wrong is the best thing that’s happened to him all day. All week? Possibly all month. 

 

It’s impossible to say what Shiro notices first about the guy who walks through the door. His dark eyes, soft mouth, the  _ jawline  _ that he has---features fair enough to be called beautiful but strong enough to cut? God. 

 

If not his features, maybe his legs, the way they go on for days, his slim waist, trim shoulders? No? Not enough?

 

Just the way he moves, maybe? He steps inside the door with easy confidence, the kind that’s self-learned and unobtrusive. Nothing about him is flaunting---he’s wearing black scrubs and non-descript work shoes. But. Shiro’s had entire relationships less sexually charged than this guy’s  _ walk. _

 

Again: God. 

 

Shiro needs a moment.  

 

The man strides, like a dream, past Shiro to the take-out counter and speaks to the cashier there about his order. His voice is too low for Shiro to hear, despite the fact that Shiro is almost certainly leaning forward in his traitorous chair. (He’s changed his mind; if the chair breaks now, Shiro will consider it the defining moment of his wretched existence. His climactic end. The time when all was officially lost.) 

 

The man’s order must not be ready yet either. He passes in front of Shiro again to stand against the opposite wall. He crosses his arms in front of him and leans against the wall to wait. 

 

The lighting is dim but Shiro still manages to be caught staring. 

 

The man lifts his chin, a slight nod, acknowledging Shiro without being friendly or hostile. Maybe it’s a comment on the fact that Shiro is also wearing scrubs---not black ones like his, but the paper thin, blue kind he changes into at the hospital everyday before heading to the residents’ office (read: closet) that he and the other med students haunt like coffee-fueled ghosts. 

 

In fact, Shiro’s just come from the hospital, after working a twelve that actually became a fourteen hour shift, and he’s positive that if he tried to cook he would burn down his entire apartment building with the effort. (Truth be told, even when fully functional, Shiro is disastrous in the kitchen. But that’s not the point.) Thus the necessity for late night chicken masala and an order of naan fit for two but that Shiro will easily polish off alone. 

 

Maybe it’s this haze of exhaustion and the heady notion of carbs to come that convinces Shiro that now is the perfect opportunity to introduce himself to the most attractive man this side of  _ ever. _ He gives the man his most winning smile---the one that’s usually reserved for after he gets caught doing something  _ naughty _ (like speeding in his 2009 Subaru or attempting to leave work *gasp* on time)---and opens his mouth to say: 

 

“Long da---” 

 

“Shiro?” The Indian accent makes his name sound exotic and soft. “Shiro? Order for Shiro.” 

Shiro gives the attractive stranger a sheepish grin and gets up to retrieve his food. He signs the receipt, tipping generously despite his account balance, and takes the plastic bag filled with aluminum take-out containers in hand. 

 

When he turns around, the man is studying his phone. 

 

Ah, well. There’s his chance, gone. 

 

Cursing his luck but not at all surprised, Shiro slips out the door, dinner in hand. 

 

*

 

It’s early morning, maybe a week or two later, when Shiro finds himself in a gas station halfway between his house and the hospital. 

 

Clutching two dollars and eighty-nine cents worth of Arabica blend in one hand, and a pack of mini chocolate frosted donuts in the other (the breakfast of champions), Shiro is standing in line for the register. The day’s stress has not yet begun and Shiro is wildly ambivalent about the entire experience. There’s just one person ahead of him in line and an alarm is dinging off in the distance, but it’s not his problem. Life is good. He’s idly wondering if the cashier really does ‘LIVE FREE’ as his knuckle tattoos suggest, when he does a double-take: 

 

The guy. 

 

It’s the guy! 

 

Just to the left of the front register, standing in the glow of the ‘Hot N Ready’ roller bar, is the ridiculously attractive man from the Indian restaurant. 

 

He’s frowning down at the taquitos rolling ad infinitum under the heat lamp. Two are already in hand and it seems he’s contemplating a third. His lips are pursed in deep deliberation and he doesn’t seem to have any idea that he’s drumming some unheard rhythm into his thigh with his fingertips.  

 

And, Shiro, 

 

Shiro is bordering on angry. Because he couldn’t tell in the low light of the restaurant, but. This guy isn’t just hot. He’s adorable too. 

 

No one should be able to look this cute at quarter ‘til five in the morning, while wearing a tie-dyed tee shirt----with…? are...? Are those  _ wolves _ on it?---gym shorts, and flip flops. He should be hideous. He’s not. 

 

He has dark, dark hair and it’s plaited into a messy braid that reaches halfway down his back. The man brushes several unkempt strands behind his ear and officially makes the decision to retrieve a third taquito from the stand. Shiro’s never been into guys with long hair before, but at this particular moment, he’s neck deep in a fantasy where the man’s hair is completely undone. And a thick lock drops past his shoulder. As he’s leaning over Shiro in bed. And---

 

The man realizes he’s being watched. He looks up and makes eye contact with Shiro. He frowns slightly, dark brows knit together in the cutest scowl, like he’s trying to place Shiro and failing. 

 

Heart racing in a way that usually only accompanies a cold brew binge, Shiro scrambles up to the register where it’s finally his turn. He fumbles to grab a pack of gum he doesn’t need---spearmint, because he loves for his mouth to taste like a fresh urinal cake, what a  _ luxury _ \---and slaps that along with the coffee and donuts onto the counter. 

 

LIVE FREE drones out his total which Shiro misses entirely, all his concentration spent on shoving his card into the chip reader at the appropriate time. His ears are burning. Did the guy think he was staring? (Again?) He was, yes, but did the guy notice?  

 

He never finds out because he makes a beeline from the till to his car, definitely not remembering that the guy has a cute ass in gym shorts, definitely not. 

 

*

 

“His name is Keith.” Shiro bestows this holy knowledge on Allura in the gravest of tones, half a month later. 

 

She chews a large bite of the Supreme pizza (extra bell peppers, no mushrooms) they’re splitting, while looking appropriately thoughtful. 

 

“I assume that means you got his number,” she finally responds. 

 

Shiro gives her a severe look. Allura knows him better than this. She’s torturing him. 

 

“No.”  Shiro dunks the crust of his slice in the extra marinara he procured exactly for that purpose. “I didn’t.” 

 

Allura smiles behind her rum and coke. “I find it strange---” 

 

“It was on the board,” Shiro interrupts, tolerating none of her bullshit. “You know, when you go to pick up the pizza, all the pending orders are on a screen,” 

 

(Because life in a pre-apocalyptic hellscape dictates that one orders pizza online and then picks it up after one’s name appears on a screen, thus achieving pizza with minimal human contact. Not that Shiro would prefer the human interaction, per se, but it’s the concept of the thing. Life continues to be a dystopian capitalistic wasteland.) 

 

“The names are next to the orders,” Shiro continues, “And he just happened to be right in front of me, so I noticed.” He ignores how bratty he sounds. “And his name is Keith. And he ordered a Meat Lover’s.” 

 

“How erotic.” 

 

Shiro gives her another look, which Allura responds to by raising one perfectly manicured brow. The microblading is really working great for her, but fuck if he’ll tell her that. Not when she’s teasing him. 

 

Pulling one leg underneath her on the couch, Allura leans forward to grab another slice from the box between them. They’re in her apartment, decompressing after a particularly difficult shift. “It  _ is _ rather romantic, though,” she muses, mouth full. 

 

Shiro nods, thinking about standing behind Keith in line at the pizza place. He was incredibly endeared to find that Keith's sweatshirt was covered in what appeared to be dog hair. And also that he is the  _ exact _ right height for Shiro to tug into his arms and kiss. And also that his ass looks good in jeans too. 

 

“Well.” Allura picks a pepperoni off one of the slices and pops it in her mouth before daintily licking her pointer finger and thumb. “The locations haven’t been terribly romantic,” 

 

Shiro gives half a shrug in agreement. The pizza place smells too much like warm beer to have much ambiance. 

 

“...but it is charming that you two keep running into one another.” 

 

“He probably thinks I’m stalking him.” Shiro says, dry. So much for romance. 

 

Admittedly, his track record for being romantic is...not great. The last serious relationship he was in came to an abrupt and gruesome end during finals week of his second year of med school. He forgot about he and Adam’s five year anniversary, and that was the final straw to a whole slew of problems between them. He thought that they were serious, but evidently not so serious that he couldn’t be dumped. 

 

Shiro was heartbroken, but his studies and career still took precedence. He was heartbroken, but. He wasn’t devastated. Not in the way that he should have been. So. He’s not exactly the leading expert on the necessities of romance. Or, well, successfully dating in general. 

 

“Oh please. Stop it.” Allura waves a hand in front of his face, harkening Shiro’s return from his spiral into crippling self-awareness. She tops off his drink with the sweetest of smiles. “I think that you and Keith will keep running into one another.” 

 

Shiro gives her a hopeful grin in return. “You think so?” 

 

“And,” she says grandly, pushing the pizza box towards him, indicating that he should grab the last piece. “I think that the universe wants you to get his number.” 

 

“The universe is probably overestimating my capabilities,” Shiro says, accepting the slice. 

 

“Shiro.” She says, with a look that she uses frequently, both at work and in her personal life. It means,  _ I am a boss bitch and I am right and you will not cross me.  _

 

And that’s that. 

 

*

 

Three days later, Shiro needs an afternoon pick-me-up. 

 

The coffee shop inside the hospital is expensive and perpetually out of vanilla syrup. (They’ll say they have it, but then they substitute the sugar-free kind on the sly and Shiro can  _ tell _ ; do they think this is a _ joke _ ? Some kind of  _ game _ ?). The Starbucks across the street is fine, in a pinch, but it’s always crowded and Shiro can’t spare the thirty-six minutes it takes to walk there, wait in line, order, wait for his drink, and then walk back. It’s not that he’s impatient; he’s just busy. 

 

Luckily, there’s a coffee shop just a block away. There’s never a wait and Shiro is a fast walker. Plus he’s looking at another late night and, honestly? He needs the fresh air. He’s already taken an oath to ‘do no harm’ and today’s attending, one Dr. Slav, is truly testing his fealty. 

 

As soon as he steps off the hospital’s campus, he feels better. Even more so when he opens the brightly colored door of the coffeehouse and is hit by a wave of buttery smelling pastries and freshly ground coffee beans. 

 

“Those are really good,” the guy behind the counter tells him, indicating a tray of baked goods labeled ‘daily special.’ 

 

Shiro zeros in on the plate. Whatever’s on it looks like an oasis in the desert of his partially hydrogenated breakfast pastry life. He salivates. 

 

The man continues, round face lighting up at Shiro’s obvious interest, “I made them myself this morning! Farm fresh blueberries for the compote and a bourbon infused vanilla glaze. I can promise you it’ll be the best danish you’ve ever eaten.” 

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Shiro says and adds two to his order. His transaction complete, he’ll soon be on his way. However, nothing in life is ever so simple: 

 

“Hunk, my bosom buddy, the light of my life, my _ raison d’etre _ ,” (the French is butchered), “You delectable,  _ treat _ of a man,” 

 

The man behind the counter smiles sweetly. “The answer’s still no, Lance,” 

 

A tall, lanky guy appears out of nowhere and slumps himself over the counter next to where the barista slash cafe owner slash baker-of-delicious-things, Hunk, is making Shiro’s drink. “But whyyyyyyy,” the tall guy continues to whine. 

 

“Because I said so. C’mon dude. Spare me. It’s been at least three hours since you’ve harassed Keith, go do that.” 

 

Lance is immediately reinvigorated. He straightens up and gives Hunk a couple of snappy finger guns and a wink, “Challenge accepted.” 

 

Keith? Shiro pauses, danish hovering halfway to his lips. 

 

Definitely not...definitely not Shiro’s Keith? Right?

 

(Not that Mysterious Attractive Guy Who Shiro is Not Stalking But That He is All Too Glad to Keep Running Into Keith is  _ Shiro’s  _ Keith, it’s just that, well,) 

 

Shiro watches in amazement as, yes,  _ his _ Keith gets up to greet Lance. Keith has been sitting at a table at the edge of the coffeehouse this whole time, reading a book, by the looks of it. 

 

(How does this keep happening?)

 

(Universe?) 

 

(Care to explain?) 

 

Keith sets his book down with a sigh and gets up from his table as Lance approaches, hollering across the room. 

 

“Keith!! Long time no see, my treasured friend! Still rocking the big-hair-band-member-meets-garage-sale look, I see. Iconic. Trendsetting. My main man. My dude. Daaaahling! How’ve you been?” Lance opens his arms wide, fingers splayed in the air, demanding a hug. 

 

“We saw each other the day before yesterday, Lance. You texted me at three a.m. this morning,  about how it was bullshit that you can’t doordash Sephora products,” Keith responds, stepping into Lance’s arms. 

 

“Truly one of the greatest difficulties facing our generation,” Lance says, pensive. He claps Keith on the back, once, twice, and then, without missing a beat, angles his arm just so, to pull Keith’s chair away from the table. 

 

“You can probably order them online,” Keith says, hands caught in Lance’s shirt, holding him close. He covertly pushes the opposite chair away from the table with his foot. 

 

“Ah, so true, why didn’t  _ I _ think of that! That’s our Keith, ever the problem solver,” Lance declares, freeing himself, not without effort, from Keith’s vicegrip of a hold. He motions grandly to the table. “Won’t you please sit down? I would love nothing more than to break bread with you on this blessed day,” 

 

“After you,” Keith says, innocent. 

 

Nodding, Lance goes to sit down, watching through narrowed eyes as Keith moves to sit back down across from him. 

 

Keith, however, is apparently familiar with Lance’s pranks. He adjusts his chair, maneuvering it back to where it was to plop down successfully---just in time to watch Lance miss his own chair and tumble to the floor opposite him. 

 

“Ke---how could y---Keith!!” Lance shouts, red-faced, from the ground. 

 

Keith snickers down into his hand, and then abruptly tosses his head back and barks out a laugh. 

 

Shiro’s heart thumps in his chest at the sound. 

 

Lance crosses his arms and mutters something unintelligible to Shiro, but it has Keith  _ rolling: _

 

His head is thrown back and his eyes are squeezed shut and his shoulders are shaking. He slaps one palm onto the table, nearly doubled over with mirth at the betrayed face Lance is pulling. Lance spits something foul, even as one of his eyebrows quirks up in amusement, and Keith’s laughter renews, pealing guileless throughout the coffeeshop. Keith has a dorky, contagious kind of laugh---the kind that hiccups and snorts and carries. The sound pulls Shiro’s lips into a grin. It’s perfect. 

 

Keith catches his breath and huffs out another chuckle before peering over the table to take a look at Lance, who is still pouting on the floor. 

 

Did Shiro mention yet that Keith has a dimple? Keith has a dimple and  _ his laugh _ . Keith---

 

His smile is beautiful and his laugh is adorable and the way he wrinkled his nose as he smirked and he has a  _ dimple _ \---- 

 

“---ro. Shiro. Uhm. Order for Shiro! Shiro, your coffee!!”  

 

Shiro only turns back to Hunk after the man repeats his name once more. “Oh,” he says faintly, gradually remembering that coffee was the objective and that his name is Shiro and that he does, in fact, exist on this plane of reality. “Thanks,” 

 

“Sorry, they’re so loud,” Hunk says, gracious enough to ignore the fact that Shiro’s mind has obviously melted out of his skull in the past five minutes. 

 

“It’s fine.” Shiro says, taking the drink. “It’s---I don’t---I actually---” He blinks, realizing that Hunk is giving him a worried kind of look. “It’s fine.” 

 

Hunk says something else and Shiro nods even though he doesn’t have any idea what it was. He’s too busy watching the way that Keith is leaning back in his chair, faint smile still over his lips, and he listens to Lance rant about something, their previous argument already over and a new one begun. 

 

Shiro is still thinking about Keith’s smile as he makes the walk back to work, coffee in hand. 

 

Nine hours later, when he closes the car door that evening after driving home, Shiro abruptly remembers how cute Keith’s laugh was, and needs a moment before he can walk from the parking lot to his apartment. 

 

He needs balance. Patience. Focus. To enter into a meditative state. He’ll get through this. 

 

*

 

Papsy’s Pints and Cones is as good of a place as any to draw his final breaths, Shiro decides, a week later. If this is his end, so be it. 

 

The concrete is rough against his back. The monster above him drags in one foul breath, canines catching the light as a growl rumbles through its massive frame. The beast lunges, moving in for the kill. Shiro stops struggling and closes his eyes as he accepts his fate, ill though it may be. 

 

He awaits the sweet, sweet release of death.  

 

It happened like this: 

 

An hour and a half earlier, Shiro makes the abrupt decision that he, having successfully completed another week of patient-care-hell, deserves something just a little bit  _ special _ for dinner _.  _ And he’s really feeling something spicy. Something savory. Something garlic-y and hot and with a metric ton of rice as a side.  

 

Mala green beans. 

 

And, yes, he could grab take out from the chinese place down the road from his apartment. Those poor souls have seen him in all states of disarray over the past two years. But it’s Friday night! And Shiro deserves to treat himself. 

 

So he drives the extra twenty-five minutes to a different restaurant on the other side of town. Now  _ that’s _ indulging. Big Friday night plans, hello. Don’t get too carried away! 

 

As soon as he steps out of his car, Shiro knows it’s worth the effort---a small pocket of heaven in this unforgiving world. 

 

The place doesn’t look like much from the outside, just two glass doors harboring a modest OPEN sign in the middle of a strip mall. The neighbors include a laundromat three doors down, a skeevy looking pawn shop, and an ice cream parlor (Papsy’s Pints and Cones, the sign reads). New China is truly the gem of the lot. 

 

Shiro picks up his order with little to-do. The take-out containers are already nestled in a brown paper bag stapled with his receipt on the top. He pays, moves to leave. 

 

And. 

 

Shiro can’t help it. 

 

It’s muscle memory at this point. 

 

Second nature. 

 

He scans the room, expecting to see…

 

...

 

...

 

Keith isn’t here…? 

 

He isn’t at the little bar towards one side of the restaurant, lounging pretty on one of the faded barstools and sipping something strong. 

 

He isn’t leaning against the eggshell white walls of the entryway, dotted with framed newspaper articles detailing the restaurant’s glowing accolades. Keith isn’t by the kitschy giant lion that guards the door, or the happy golden Buddha that sits atop the front desk. He isn’t in the tiny dining area with his friends from the coffee shop, or following Shiro in the door to get take-out as well. 

 

And, it doesn’t make any sense, because, logically, there’s no  _ reason _ for Keith to be at this random restaurant on the far side of town, just by chance. And he and Shiro aren’t friends. They aren’t even acquaintances. So why does Shiro feel so disappointed? How can he miss someone whom he barely even knows? 

 

Fingers tight on his dinner, Shiro opens the glass door, a tinkling bell signaling his departure. He steps into the evening air, ready to head home. He has three case-studies he needs to read over before bed, and he’s been trying to get at least five hours of sleep a night. He’ll enjoy his dinner first though. He’s trying. 

 

Lost in thoughts as high-spirited as these, Shiro fails to notice the large animal watching him from the sidewalk. He doesn’t pick up on the way amber eyes track his movement into the parking lot. By the time Shiro sees his attacker, it’s too late. 

 

The huge dog appears as if out of thin air, enormous and slobbery and very interested in what Shiro is carrying. Maybe  _ attacker  _ is too strong of a word---but regardless, Shiro is not expecting to be mauled in the parking lot in front of Papsy’s, and so he stumbles, and trips, and the bag goes flying, and he’s left flat on his back wondering where it all went wrong. 

 

“Oh shit.” 

 

The dog----can it be called a dog? It’s more of a wolf, just based on the sheer size of the beast alone---the dog is licking Shiro’s face without mercy, huge paws pinning him down, Shiro’s take-out apparently forgotten. 

 

“Shit,” the voice repeats, as someone runs up, and grabs the beast, attempting to pull it off Shiro. “Kosmo, stop that!” 

 

“I’m fine,” Shiro drones from the ground, eyes closed. “Just give me a minute.” 

 

When he’s recovered sufficiently, he looks over and sees blue flip-flops, delicate boney ankles, dark hair curling over pale calves. The owner squats down, ice cream cone in hand. He tilts his head, concern swimming in blueblack eyes. “Sorry about that. You okay?” 

 

Keith. Shiro sits up, half in a daze. It’s Keith. Shiro laughs, a short disbelieving huff. Of course it’s Keith. “Believe it or not, this isn’t even the worst thing that’s happened to me this week,” 

 

“Good to know.” Keith’s mouth pulls in amusement, and god, his smile is even more gorgeous close up. Keith stands, shoving the last of his ice cream cone in his mouth before rubbing his hand on his cargo shorts and offering it to Shiro to help him up. 

 

Shiro takes his hand, and finds that Keith is much stronger than he looks. The thought makes his mouth dry. “Thanks for saving me,” 

 

“Anyti---” Keith’s response drifts off as Shiro fully stands, a good head taller than him and, when they’re this close, obviously twice as broad. Keith swallows, calling attention to a dark freckle near his jawline. Shiro has to fight to tear his eyes away and  _ stop thinking about kissing him there NOW _ . 

 

Apparently fighting a similar bout of inarticulateness, Keith wets his lips before repeating the word: “Anytime. Uh. I’m--Keith. My name’s Keith. Are you okay?” 

 

“Shiro,” Shiro holds out his hand, the one Keith just dropped. Keith’s hand is significantly smaller, but his grip is firm. 

 

“I’m fine, but.” Shiro grins, tilting his head. “I can’t say the same for my dinner.” 

 

“Oh---oh!” Keith looks around, seeing the broken containers spilling out of the brown bag. “Shit,” he repeats, looking genuinely distraught. 

 

“I’ll survive.” Shiro reassures. “Not the end of the world.” 

 

Keith’s face is cute when pinched in worry too. He shuffles on his feet, clearly trying to decide what to do and feeling at odds about it. He looks down at his dog (wolf) and then back at the food and up at Shiro. 

 

“I should---” Shiro starts---

 

“Let me---” Keith says at the same time. He scowls at the timing, or maybe at being interrupted. 

 

“Go ahead,” Shiro says, feeling lightheaded.  _ His scowl, his angry pout!  _

 

“Let me make it up to you,” Keith says, all in a rush. 

 

“It’s really---” 

 

“I can get you another order of food, at least, Shiro,” Keith says, stubborn. The name sounds familiar on his lips, like he’s said it before. Natural and right. 

 

Keith sets his jaw and he looks up at Shiro with a glare that clearly isn’t going to take no for an answer. 

 

“That’s fine,” Shiro concedes, fighting back a smile. 

 

Keith smiles in return, like Shiro just made his whole day by agreeing. He tuts at his wolf (dog), indicating that she should stay outside the restaurant while he orders. 

 

“Just let me throw this---” Shiro stops, bending over to pick up the remains of his would be dinner. 

 

Keith chokes. 

 

“What?” Shiro stands, looking around. “Keith? What’s wrong?” 

 

“Your arm!!” 

 

Shiro twists and angles, looking at the back of his forearm and elbow. It’s pretty scraped up from where he fell. It’ll bruise, sure, but it doesn’t warrant half the alarm Keith is currently radiating. “It’s fine,” he says, “I’ll---”

 

What exactly it is that he’ll do escapes him as Keith nears his side. 

 

“Make sure you clean it as soon as you get home,” Keith says, turning over his wrist with the gentlest of touches. He holds Shiro’s arm like he’s something precious and easily startled, grip determined but kind. He examines the shallow wound. After a moment, “And apply antiseptic ointment if you can. And bandage it.” 

 

Shiro nods, feeling oddly warmed by Keith’s worry. 

 

“I work, uh. I’m a vet resident at an animal hospital, so I see a lot of injuries. Not that you’re---” Keith pauses, looking up at Shiro and realizing they’re close. He blinks at the realization, but he doesn’t drop Shiro’s arm or back away, despite the narrow distance between them. “Um, but anyways. People and animals probably aren’t so different with this kind of thing, so just make sure you, uh, do that.” 

 

“Got it.” Shiro agrees, irrationally happy at being instructed. It’s refreshing to be on the other side of the patient-care relationship. He’s never liked being fussed over, but apparently Keith is an exception. 

 

“Good.” Satisfied, Keith loosens his grip on Shiro’s arm, in favor of bending slightly to dig in the pockets of his cargo shorts. Inexplicably, he pulls out a mechanical pencil and a notepad. The pages are unlined, and Shiro catches sight of a handful of sketches as Keith flips, looking for a blank page. He writes---script neat and square, nothing like Shiro’s scrawl---and tears the page from the pad with a look of concentration on his face. “Just in case,” he says, handing Shiro the piece of paper. His expression is serious, but just a hint of color has risen up his neck to the tops of his cheeks. 

 

‘Keith’ the paper reads, and then in parenthesis, ‘dog dad.’ 

 

Keith hesitates and then withdraws the paper from Shiro’s reach for a second. He adds the word ‘wild’ over the word ‘dog.’ Satisfied he hands the paper back to Shiro. 

 

And under ‘Keith (wild dog dad)’ is his phone number. 

 

“I’ll text you?” Shiro asks, almost in disbelief at the ten digits staring back at him. 

 

Keith nods, smiling, soft but enough to show his dimple. “Yeah. Definitely.” Walking towards the restaurant, he points at the (wild) dog and instructs her: “Stay here. No more funny business.” 

 

Shiro looks at the dog, who looks up at him and wags her tail. This is a magnificent animal. He’s probably never been more pro-dog than at this exact moment of his life. She’s a  _ treasure. _

 

Still standing in the parking lot of Papsy’s, Shiro pulls out his phone and texts Allura: 

 

**To Allura:** I love the universe and I love dogs

 

Half a minute later, Keith leans out the door of the Chinese restaurant: “Shiro!! I don’t know what you want!” 

 

“Oh, right!!” Shiro tucks his phone, along with Keith’s number, back into his pocket. He jogs up to meet Keith. “Have you had their mala green beans?” 

 

*

 

Exactly two months and three days later, Shiro is sitting at his kitchen table, surrounded by no less than seven stacks of papers. He’s got his laptop open in front of him, a long abandoned cup of instant coffee within reach, and a grimace on his face. 

 

He’s been working on this research report for the better part of the last six hours and has finally hit a wall. The data is shit. Shiro’s writing is shit. He doesn’t even know the point he’s trying to make anymore. The statistical analysis is shit and also makes  _ no sense _ . He’s just about to text Pidge to see if they can explain p-values to him for the billionth time, when, 

 

There’s a rap on his door. Three short knocks, swift and to the point. Shiro thinks that auditory hallucinations are the last thing he needs to add to his impressive list of personal issues, and resolves to ignore what can not possibly actually be another human being at his door. 

 

Except for, the knocks repeat. Shiro gets up from his chair to answer the door, trying to decide if getting murdered would be an overall positive or negative experience, should a serial killer be standing on the other side. Pros: he would be finished writing the report. Cons: it’d probably be messy and the landlady is too nice to inconvenience. 

 

But. Standing on the other side of the door, is not a serial killer or a hallucination. It’s Keith, in the flesh. 

 

“Keith?” Shiro asks, pulling the door wide enough for Keith to step inside. “What are you doing here?” 

 

Since they officially met, they’ve been texting almost everyday, and met up with each other more than a handful of times---a feat not easily achieved, considering the hectic nature of their respective schedules. But everything with Keith is simple. He’s straightforward and honest. Easy to piss off (Shiro’s seen secondhand, never thus far been on the receiving end of Keith’s ire) and easy to please. Easy to talk to. Easy to love. 

 

(And love is a big word that Shiro doesn’t use lightly, never has. But it’s difficult to think of any other word when everything about Keith just seems to be  _ right. _ It’s as if a piece of Shiro’s heart was incomplete and he didn’t even realize until Keith filled it so perfectly.)

 

(Shiro will concede that if it was indeed the universe that brought them together, it seems to know what it’s doing).  

 

“Shiro,” Keith says, “Hi.” His expression brightens when he sees Shiro and that alone makes something expand and lighten in Shiro’s chest. 

 

“What’re you---” 

 

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Keith says, responding to his question before Shiro can get it out. “Figured you were working too hard.” He leans over, looking past Shiro to eye the papers littering the kitchen table. “Looks like I was right.” 

 

“My phone?” Shiro pats himself down and then realizes that his phone is probably still in his workout bag from when he went to the gym this morning. “Sorry, I completely forgot,” 

 

Keith shakes his head, expression more amused than annoyed. He holds up a plastic bag containing a number of white styrofoam containers. “Do you have time for dinner?” 

 

“I--” Shiro blinks, taking in all of Keith---standing in his doorway, looking equal parts hopeful and guarded. This isn’t just the universe. This is Keith taking a chance, one that Shiro hasn’t yet had the courage to take. Shiro breathes deep and exhales with a smile. “I’d love that.” 

 

“Good,” Keith responds, tightness lifting from his mouth and shoulders. He shuffles as he pries off one boot with the toes from the other and then repeats on the other side. His socks are mismatched and stained at the top, probably from where he’s worn them hiking and gotten them muddy. Keith doesn’t seem to care. “Because this is too many wings for me to eat by myself.” 

 

“Glad to be of service,” Shiro jokes. Keith rolls his eyes, but looks quietly amused all the same.

 

Keith walks in like he’s been in Shiro’s apartment a million times, like they’ve known each other for years. He hasn’t and they haven’t but it couldn’t matter less. Everything about them just...fits. 

 

Shiro moves his work to the side of the table, shutting his computer with a satisfying snap. Keith opens the containers in the middle of the table, revealing three stacks of chicken wings in various sauces. He accepts the drink Shiro hands him with a quiet, “Thanks,” and they settle down on either side. 

 

“So, how’d the thing go with Lindsey today?” Keith asks. He takes a hair tie from around his wrist and gathers his hair into a knot on the top of his head, revealing the widow’s peak of his hairline and all the baby hairs that curl untamed around it. He plucks a wing from one of the stacks and bites into it, licking sticky fingers as he chews. 

 

He’s gorgeous. It takes Shiro a moment to gather his thoughts. 

 

“Dr. Elliot,” Shiro responds with false gravity, “had a wonderful day.” He selects a piece for himself and takes a bite. “She  _ greatly _ enjoyed rounds with our team---so much so that she asked Slav for an additional development seminar this coming Wednesday.” 

 

“That’s supposed to be your short day!” Keith protests, mouth agape and messy with hot sauce. 

 

“I know!” Shiro groans, waving a half eaten wing in the air. “And now it’s not. So, get this: when she went to lunch, I replaced all the pens in her coat with the dried out ones the nurses have stashed away in a junk drawer on 5-West. ” 

 

Keith snorts. “Shiro. That’s so petty.” 

 

“Too much?” 

 

“No. Definitely not.” 

 

“That’s good because I replaced the spare pens in her desk with the shitty ones too,” Shiro says, with a huff. He might have to endure two extra hours of Slav, but Dr. Lindsey Elliot will endure months of subpar writing instruments. 

 

Keith laughs, the loud one he does when he really thinks something is funny, head tossed back and eyes scrunched shut. “That’s great.” 

 

Shiro laughs too, even as his heart kicks in chest.

 

This thing between them---the easy thing, the universe thing, the one that seems right and for always---Shiro’s never experienced anything quite like it before. He wants to put the effort in. To make it real. “Keith,” he says, later on, when the food is finished between them. 

 

“Hmm?” Keith responds, licking the last vestiges of sauce from the corners of his mouth. He’s got it all over his chin too, and a bit on his cheek. 

 

“Will you go out with me?” 

 

“Sure,” Keith says, “Where to?” 

“No.” Shiro feels the courage wane in his chest and he has to quiet his nerves before he can continue. “I mean on a date.” 

 

“Oh.” Keith looks caught; his eyes open wide and he looks to the edge of the room. He swallows. 

 

Shiro. Has read this all wrong. Pulse jumping, he panics: “If you don’t want to that’s fine! I thought you were, I thought we---I was---But---” 

 

“Shiro.” Keith blinks. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

 

Shiro pauses. Frowns. “You did?”  

 

“I gave you my number?” 

 

“But that doesn’t mean---” 

 

Keith shakes his head. “You treated me to In-N-Out.” 

 

Shiro is horrified. “That wasn’t. A date? Keith? I just.” Shiro exhales a breath, “You said you liked their burgers?” 

 

“I do,” Keith shrugs. 

 

Shiro sits back in his chair. “I’m so bad at this. Romance. Dating. Keith---” 

 

Keith touches Shiro’s shoulder lightly as if comforting. “Shiro.” He smiles, small and trusting. “I like you. Romantic or not.” 

 

Shiro looks at him, and realizes, not for the last time, how remarkable Keith is. How amazing their meeting has been. Persistent and strange and coincidental and fated and good. So good. Keith returns his gaze, level and confident. 

 

“I want to kiss you,” Shiro tells him. 

 

“So do it,” Keith responds. 

 

And Shiro leans forward in his chair, one hand on the table, the other careful along Keith’s jaw. And he does. 

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished writing a LOOONG LOOOOOONG canonverse klance fic and I wanted to refresh with something cute and light and sheith-y. I hope it was nice to read! drop me a comment if you'd like! or find me on [twitter @jacqulinetan](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan) . thank you so much for reading!!
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT!!! there's art!! I took part in the sheith positivity exchange, and Milkypup did [this](https://twitter.com/Skuggoo_Scribbs/status/1167197971630280705?s=20) absolutely wonderful art of the ice cream scene. I feel so lucky and grateful!!!


End file.
